After a long stay within the walls of the Fort, Claude had yielded to her cousin’s importunity, and gone out.

She felt the truth of the French saying before she had gone a hundred yards from her gates.  It was only the first step that cost, for, as she passed along the little row of houses facing the harbour, there was a smile from one, a look of glad recognition from another, and several of the rough fishermen who were hanging about waiting for signs of fish doffed their hats with a hearty “How do, miss?”

A thrill of pleasure ran through her, and a feeling of awakening as from a time of sloth, as she realised that life could not be passed as a time for mourning.

She turned to speak to Mary, after another or two of these friendly salutations to the lady of the Fort, and was met by a smile and a nod.

“There, I told you so, Claudie.  It was quite time you came out.  It was a duty.”

Claude felt her cheeks burn slightly as she noted the direction in which they were going, but she kept on, feeling truly that she would have felt the same whichever direction they had taken.

It was a glorious evening, with the sun turning the whole of the western sky to orange and gold; and, as she breathed in the soft elastic air, watched the brilliant shimmer of colour as of liquid flames at sea, she listened to the murmurs of the ripple among the boulders, where the little river ran swiftly down from the glen, and the twitter of the birds in birch and fir.  The joyous sensation that filled her breast was painful, even to drawing tears.

It was to her like the first walk after a long illness, when there is a feeling akin to ecstasy, and life seems never to have been so beautiful before.  She could not speak, but wandered on beside her cousin ­over the bridge, where they paused to gaze down at the golden-amber water, sparkling and foaming on its way to the sea.  Ever onward and up the glen, but not far before the sound of a large pebble, kicked by a heavy boot out into the rippling water, where it fell with a splash, told them that they were not alone, and the next minute Chris had overtaken them and held out his hand.

There was a look almost of reproach in Claude’s eyes, as, with quivering lip, she laid her hand in his, and yielded it, as he gently and reverently carried it to his lips.

“I have not been to you; I have not written,” he said, in a deep voice.  “I felt that it was a duty to respect your sorrow.  I have felt for you none the less deeply.”

She stood looking gravely in his eyes, and he went on ­

“Under the painful circumstances, I could not come to you; I was driven from your side.  But Claude, dearest,” he continued, with the passion within him making his words vibrate, as it were, in her breast, and her heart flutter as it had never beaten before.  “I love you more clearly than ever; and listen, darling ­I would not say it, but cruel words have been spoken about my mercenary thoughts.”

“Don’t, don’t,” she murmured.

“But one word ­for your sake.”

“No, no,” she cried piteously.

“Then for mine,” he pleaded.

“What do you wish to say?”

“Then I am no longer the poor beggar I was called.”

“Chris!”

“But comparatively rich, love.  I only said that so that those who would see evil in my acts may meet something to act as a shield to cast off these malicious darts.  No, no, don’t withdraw your hand, dearest.  I know how you have suffered.  I have suffered too ­sorrow for you ­bitter jealousy of that man.”

“Chris,” she whispered, with a look of appeal, “for pity’s sake!  I am weak and ill ­I cannot bear it.”

“Forgive me,” he cried; “what a selfish brute I am!  There, I hold your dear hand once more, and I am satisfied.  I will not say another word, only go and wait patiently.  My Claude cannot be anything but all that is kind and just to me.  I’ll go and wait.”

She stood looking in his eyes, and he clasped her hand, while the soft, ruddy glow which struck right up the glen seemed to bathe them both in its warm light.  Her lips moved to speak, but no sound came, though her eyes were full of joy and pride in the brave, manly young fellow whose words had thrilled her to the core.

“If it could have been,” she felt.  And then a pang of agony shot through her, and she shuddered.

“How worn and thin you look, darling,” he said tenderly.  “My poor, poor girl.”

This seemed to unloose the frozen words within her; the tears gushed from her eyes, and she tried to withdraw her hand, but it was too tightly held.

“Chris,” she said at last, and she clung to his hand as she spoke, “I do not doubt you.  I know all you say is the simple truth, but it seems cruel to me now.”

“Cruel!  My darling!”

“Hush, pray hush.  It would be cruel, too, in me to let you speak like this about what can never, never be.”

“Claude!  What are you saying?”

“That I have my poor father’s words still ringing in my ears.  He forbade it, and I cannot go in opposition to his washes.”

“Claude!”

“I cannot help it.  It is better that the words should be spoken now, and the pain be over.  Chris, when we meet again it must be as friends.”

“No,” he cried passionately; “you must meet me as my promised wife.”

“It is impossible,” she said faintly, after a painful pause.  “No, Chris, as my friend ­brother, if you wish, but that is at an end.”

“But why ­no, no; don’t answer me.  You are ill and hysterical, dear.  You think seriously of words that will grow fainter and of less import as the time goes on.  There, come.  Let us put all this aside now.  I am content that we have met, and you know the truth ­that I have spoken, and so plainly, once again.”

“No; you must hear me now,” she said with a sigh, that seemed to be torn from her breast.

“Well, then, speak,” he said, with a smile full of pity.

“Once more,” she said, after a pause; “you must never speak to me again as you have to-night.”

“Why?”

“You know, Chris, my father’s wish.”

“The result of a mistake.  Claude, you love me.”

She made an effort once more to free herself, and stood with her eyes fixed upon the ground.

“Claude,” he cried passionately, “you will tell me that.”

“I cannot,” she said firmly.

He let her hand fall from between his, and a curiously heavy look came slowly into his face as the jealous anger within him began to seethe.

“You cast at me your father’s words,” he said hurriedly.

“I am obliged to remind you of his wish.”

“That you should marry this man, this Glyddyr.  Claude, you cannot, you dare not tell me this.”

“I do not tell you this,” she said, quickly and excitedly.  “No, that is impossible.  I could not be his wife:  I must not be yours.”

“You are speaking in riddles.”

“Riddles that you can easily read,” she said sadly.  “Chris, my life is marked out for me.  I have my duties waiting.  I cannot, I will not marry a man I do not love, but I will not disobey my poor dead father and listen to you.  Good-bye now ­I can bear no more.  Some day we can meet again patiently and calmly as in the happy old times.”

“Yes,” he said, with the angry feeling passing away, “I shall wait contented, for you will not marry this man ­you promise me that?”

“Claude, dear; Claude.”

They had neither of them given Mary a thought, and she had discreetly walked away but to return now quickly, and as they raised their eyes it was to see her close at hand, and some fifty yards away Parry Glyddyr advancing fast.

Claude saw that Glyddyr looked white and strange, but it was the rage in Chris Lisle’s eyes which startled her, as Glyddyr strode up, with extended hand, ignoring the presence of her companion.

“Claude, don’t leave them alone, as there’ll be trouble,” whispered Mary, and her cousin’s words seemed to cast a lurid light upon the situation.

She did not give Glyddyr her hand, but turned to Chris and said gently ­

“Good-bye.  It will be better that we should not meet again ­not yet.”

He took the hand gravely, let his own close over it in a firm, warm clasp, and released it silently.

“Mary.”

Claude turned to go, and her cousin went to her side white as ashes.  Glyddyr stood looking from one to the other, as if hesitating what to do.

“Claude, do you hear me,” whispered Mary.

“Mr Glyddyr, are you going this way?” said Claude in a low deep voice.

“Yes, of course,” he cried, with his face lighting up, and darting a look of triumph at his rival, who stood motionless, with one hand resting upon his rod as though it were a spear, he went on down the glen by Claude’s side.

“Mr Lisle ­Chris ­do you not hear?  Good-bye.”

Chris started back as it were into life, and saw that Mary had run back and laid her hand in his.

“Ah, little woman,” he said, with a gentle, pitying tone in his voice, “I was thinking, I suppose.  Good-bye, Mary, and don’t fall in love, dear; it’s a mistake.”

“Chris,” she cried, with the tears in her beautiful eyes, as she gazed at the broad-shouldered sturdy fellow, “why do you talk like that?”

“Why do I talk like that?” he said bitterly.  “Because I am a weak fool, I suppose.  Look there.”

He pointed down the glen.

“Chris!”

“There, run after them, and play propriety, little lady,” he said bitterly.  “Or no ­they do not miss you; better stop behind, or shall I see you home?”

“Chris, dear Chris,” she whispered.

“Don’t talk to me,” he cried.  “I’m half mad.  Good-bye, Mary, good-bye.”

He turned sharply and hurried away up the glen, and as Mary watched, she heard his reel begin to sing as he walked on down by the stream, making casts blindly among the boulders.

“Poor fellow,” she said, as she turned and walked swiftly away.  “I wish I had not said a word.”

She gave one more glance back and hurried after the retreating pair.  Had she looked long enough she would have seen Chris Lisle stride into the first clump of trees and throw himself down with his face buried in his arms, and there he was lying still long after darkness had come on, and the stars were peering down and glistening in the rushing stream.